


the lavender prince

by peachii



Series: Forget Me Not [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate ending of sorts to The Sunflower You Lost, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Heavy Injury, Heavy lancelot in this one folks, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Lotor isn't abusive or evil I promise, M/M, Self-Harm, Tags Subject to Change, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-11-13 00:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11173434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachii/pseuds/peachii
Summary: He always wanted to die a hero — going out in a blaze of glory to protect the ones he loved — but as it turned out, laughing in the face of death was easier said than done.Lance was afraid.And he couldn’t help but wonder, how had things turned out like this?In which it was not the Black lion the team found empty, but Blue.Or: a rescue mission goes wrong and one paladin doesn't make it back.





	1. a rescue mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say thank you to everyone who has supported my previous fics and my writing as a whole - from your kind words, this has bloomed.
> 
> It should be noted that you do not have to have read The Sunflower You Lost to understand the events of this fic.
> 
> edit: okay i was half asleep when i posted this, but the lance/keith/lotor tag was NOT supposed to be there lmao - it's just lance/lotor.. sorry to those of you who thought you were getting a threesome omg?
> 
> Heavy amounts of blood and major injury ahead, tread carefully.

Lance was going to die.

In hindsight, he had anticipated this moment the second he became a paladin of Voltron.

He had spent countless hours wide awake in his quarters, staring up at a metallic ceiling that never quite felt like his own, going through the many different scenarios in which he may meet his gruesome fate on the battlefield.

It just seemed a bit too cruel, to think he would spend his final moments alone, in an alien war ship millions of lightyears from his family.

He always wanted to die a hero — going out in a blaze of glory to protect the ones he loved — but as it turned out, laughing in the face of death was easier said than done.

Lance was afraid.

And he couldn’t help but wonder, how had things turned out like this?

 

 

-

 

  
“Uh, guys? Do you think you could - I don’t know, speed it up a little?”

Keith’s strained voice cut through the static.

“I’m with Keith,” Hunk chimed in, sounding like he was on the verge of wrenching. “I don’t know how much longer we can hold these fleets off by ourselves. Oh, quiznack, I’m gonna —”

The sounds of projectile vomit was welcomed by the confinements of everyone’s helmets.

Beside Lance, Shiro grimaced. “Just a little bit longer, you two,” he said, voice low but reassuring. “This mission is vital. I know you’re both capable.”

It was then that Lance noticed Pidge had quickened her pace, passing the Black Paladin in one long stride — only to be caught by her shoulder and gently pulled back. She made a noise of disapproval, but didn’t struggle.

“Katie,” Shiro said, and his voice was softer. She seemed to relax a little upon hearing her real name, but Lance noticed a few frustrated tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “We’re going to find them. But we need to stick together — this isn’t a mission we can rush into. Patience yields focus.”

Pidge inhaled, deeply, then exhaled a shaky breath. “Patience yields focus,” she muttered.

“Easy for you to say,” Hunk’s voice groaned. “You guys aren’t _galra bait_.”

The trio made their way down the dimly lit corridor. The sound of approaching metal feet caught everyone’s attention, and Shiro quickly motioned for them to fall back.

Lance’s fingers clutched at his bayard tightly, eyes narrowed and breath constrained as a line of sentries moved briskly down the hall — no doubt to join the attack against the Red and Yellow lions.

Once the footsteps had retreated, Lance withdrew the nervous air that had been building in his lungs.

“We have to keep moving,” Shiro informed them, scanning the perimeter one last time before taking lead again.

Everything was going so smoothly. They had successfully infiltrated the galra ship — a ship that, if all those sleepless nights collecting data had paid off and their information was correct, was holding Matt Holt captive.

It wasn’t just another ‘operation: pick off any remaining galra after Zarkon’s demise” — it was a rescue mission.

And because of that, they couldn’t afford for a single thing to go wrong. Lance was certain Pidge’s heart wouldn’t be able to bear it, if they failed to locate her missing brother when he was finally within reach.

Three became two in a matter of seconds. Lance had anticipated them having to separate from the very beginning, though he couldn’t help but feel a sudden panic as Shiro turned to face a swarm of sentries that located them.  
  
“Take Pidge and find Matt,” he ordered him, clenching his cybernetic fist as it was engulfed by a pink light.

Just like that, the sake of the mission rode on Lance’s shoulders. Part of him wanted to feel some sort of pride that Shiro trusted him with such an important task, but then again, who was to say he did? Perhaps he just knew Lance wasn’t capable of taking on so many enemies on his own, so he left him with the task of locating the prisoners instead. After all, Pidge was a genius, so all Lance had to do was make sure she made it there safely.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and nodded at his leader, snatching Pidge’s hand and dragging her down the corridor. He didn’t look back, nor did he feel the need to wish Shiro good luck as he charged the sentries. He knew he wouldn’t need it.

“This way,” Pidge huffed out as they ran, jabbing her blinking device towards another winding corridor that led further into the depths of the galra ship.

“I really hope that thing knows where it’s taking us,” Lance obliged with a grunt.

“Of course it does, I _made_ it,” Pidge retorted. Her breath was somewhat jagged now, implying both a restless and anxious state.

Lance was tempted to pull her to the side and wrap his arms around her; coo that it would be okay, but she needed to breath — just as he used to with Lucia.

 _There isn’t time,_ he briskly reminded himself, brushing aside the temptation.

She probably wouldn’t have appreciated it coming from him, anyways.

“Uh, Lance.” Pidge came to an abrupt halt, tugging his arm backwards. “We’ve got company.”

Sure enough, six sentries blocked their path. Just ahead, he saw what he could only assume were the prisoners’ quarters.  Naturally.

“I’ll take care of them,” Lance grunted, hefting his bayard over his shoulder. “If I distract them, can you sneak past?”

“What about you?” Pidge asked, shifting nervously to look up at him. Lance grit his teeth, attempting to grind away the sudden prick of irritation that she had asked him, but not Shiro.

“I’ll be fine, just—” One of the sentries began to fire before he could finish.

Pidge scrambled out of the way, eyes wide as saucers as she looked to Lance.  

" _Go_!"

She obliged without another word, hugging the tracking device to her chest as she dashed towards the prisoners’ quarters.  If she looked back in that moment, Lance never saw, his attention now directed on the inanimate hostiles fully invested in killing him.

 

  
-

 

  
Everything was going so smoothly.

At least, it _had_ been.

Lance was actually kicking ass. He had successfully obliterated all but two of the sentries, a triumph he wouldn’t let Keith forget when they got back to the castle.

He didn’t think about the hit he had taken to the side earlier. It only damaged his armor, after all, and the pain that had racked his protected body was already ceasing.

That's when one of the sentries managed to knock his bayard from his hand just as its blast ate its core.  The robot crumpled to the ground, but Lance had little time to celebrate before the second was already upon him.

He darted forward, fingers grappling his weapon. Time was fated to betray him, though, and the paladin knew long before pulling the trigger ever dawned on him.

His armor could not hold against a second blast. He heard a crack as his only means of protection fractured down the front, exposing the fragility of a human’s body beneath.

Lance saw the ball of vicious light discharge again; how it looked so deadly yet beautiful as it tore through the air like a hungry star.

This time it tasted flesh, and crimson bloomed from Lance’s ribcage like a rose garden. He chocked on the flowers and stumbled backwards, attempting to remain upright in the face of his defeat.

He might have screamed, but if he did the sound never reached his ears.

He staggered, trembling palms pressed against the ribbons of red as they began to unravel. His legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground, gaping and writhing beneath the weight of his pain.

The sentry watched him with lifeless eyes, analyzing his defeat. It was strange, but Lance couldn’t help but hate the way its face lacked emotion in that moment. Not even the slightest hint of pride at what it had done. It just stared, uninterested and cold.

Even his own slayer saw no triumph in his demise.

He wasn’t sure why the sentry left. Perhaps it was uninterested in finishing a job that would come to full circle shortly — or maybe it realized it had disobeyed an order by killing a paladin that could have contained vital information.

Regardless of its rationale, Lance came to find himself alone, bleeding out and soaked with regret as red as the roses that wept from his wounds.

 

 

-

 

_Lance. Lance._

For a heartbeat, Lance thought he was imagining the familiar voice.

It came again, more distinct this time: _Lance, my dear paladin._

It was Blue. Not only could he hear her, but he could sense her nearby — and he realized with an ache that she had left the castle and came to his aid.

She knew he was dying. She was afraid.

 _“Blue,”_ he murmured. He heard himself say it, but he knew it was traced only from their minds. _“Blue, you have to go.”_

_I have lost one paladin. Not again._

He could feel the height of Blue’s grief in that moment.

 _“There’s no time.”_ He sucked in a shaky breath. _“I won’t make it. You have to go with the others.”_

“Lance?” came Hunk’s voice, hardly audible over a roar of static. “Lance, you alright, buddy? We need to get the heck out of here. Pidge has Matt.”

He was suddenly filled with warmth at the declaration that they had managed to save her long-lost sibling. But perhaps that was only the blood pooling at his side.

“Lance, do you copy?” That time it was Shiro’s voice. He sounded disheveled. “I have Pidge and Matt with me, we’re headed to the main Hangar. Hunk and Keith will pick us up in their lions. We don’t have much time before the wormhole closes.”

“What— is that Blue?” It was Keith’s turn to speak, sounding bewildered. “Why is Blue here? Lance, what’s going on?” He detected the faintest hint of concern in the raven-haired boy’s words. It almost brought a smile to his lips. Almost.

Lance closed his eyes. His dusted cheeks felt damp with silent tears, but he couldn’t recall when he had started to cry.

He thought of Pidge, with her gaped smile. She had taken a hit to the face via a riled sentry a few weeks back and lost a tooth — she thought it looked ridiculous, but in Lance’s opinion it was the single most adorable thing that could have happened to her.

_Ayúdame._

He imagined Matt wrapping her in a tight hug while she sobbed into his chest. Reunited, at last.

_It hurts. Me duele mucho, mamá._

He couldn't take that moment away from them.  Not when the risks were to high - not when he wouldn't make it back to the castle in time.  

The mission was far too important to hinder because of Lance’s mistakes.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he croaked out, doing his best to hide his pain. “I took a minor hit, but I can walk. Blue must’a sensed it and made her own wormhole to find me. I’ll figure out a way to get to her, so don’t wait up for me.”

His mother always said heroes had to make sacrifices.

If he was going to die alone at the hands of the galra, then at the very least, he wanted to hold that title in his final moments.

 

  
-

 

  
“Lance?”

_Keith._

“Lance, we’re a-go. Are you with Blue?”

Lance moved his hand over his side. His palm immediately became slick with blood. He cleared his throat, afraid if he spoke he might betray his state. “Ye-ah.”

“You don’t sound too good.”

Hunk. He felt the faintest smile tug at his lips. His voice was like sunshine.

“Fine. I’ll be fine. Just…little banged up. Little.”

“You’re injured,” Shiro concluded, strain lacing his words. He didn’t ask how bad it was, most likely more concerned with getting them back to the castle with the galra fleets now hot on their heels. “Just hold on, alright? Allura, prepare a healing pod. Lance is injured. We’re approaching through the worm hole.”

 

Time slowed down. Or perhaps it sped up.

He heard a sea of voices, many of which were familiar yet too far away to distinguish.

At some point, he heard a wail, and he realized it was Hunk. Panicked, he jolted from his daze.

“Where’s Lance? _Lance?_   Blue’s empty.”

Lance felt a prick of guilt. Hunk had never sounded so distressed.

“I’m sorry.” It came out a croak. The lights had begun to pulse around him, dancing across his waning vision. “I…may’hv messed up..a little.”

He imagined the fear and confusion etched across their faces.

“What the hell does that mean?” Keith sounded shrill. Angry, too. Lance couldn’t blame him. “Where — what’s — Blue, where _is_ he?”

He heard a short burst of white noise, followed by bits of Shiro’s muffled voice momentarily cutting into Keith’s com. _“Keith, breath. Hitting Blue won’t help.”_

“I’m sorry,” Lance repeated, no longer attempting to control the pained tremor of his voice.

“Where are you?” It was Pidge that time. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears.

He felt another prick of guilt.

“His signal is coming from the galra ship.” Allura, hollowly.

He wondered if she would miss him and his poor attempts to flirt with her all the time. Probably not.

“We left him?” It came out a strangled whisper from Hunk.

Pidge made a similar noise, followed by a soft, “No, no…”

“We have to go back. Fuck. I didn’t — Shiro, we have to go back—” Keith, always the hothead. He thought of the red paladin scooping a wilted Lance in his arms, rage burning in his sterling grey eyes as he called him an idiot. It made him laugh. He ignored the red that he coughed up as a result.

“We’re coming to get you,” Keith went on, each word ragged and breathless. “We’re— just hold on, okay? We’re coming.”

Keith was often filled with empty threats. But empty promises, that was new.

Lance inhaled shakily. “I’m so-rry I was s-such a burden to you guys.”

“Burden?” Hunk echoed, broken-up.

“Lance, you were never a burden.” There was remorse in Shiro’s voice, even as he began to grunt with effort. Lance pictured their leader holding Keith against him as he constrained the red paladin from a second and futile rescue mission.

He wanted to believe him.  He really did.

Keith sobbed. “We have to go back—”

“It’s okay.” Lance was smiling up at the blurred ceiling with reassurance, even though the others couldn’t see him. Maybe it was more to reassure himself. “Is ..Matt there?”

“...He’s here.”

He couldn’t make out who was speaking — not that it really mattered.

A sense of solace washed over him. Matt had been recovered. The mission was a success.

He closed his eyes, and he saw Matt, draped in the Blue Paladin armor, a grin spread across his freckle-dappled features.

They would be just fine without him.

He felt himself slipping into a comfortable darkness, far away from the sounds of his mourning teammates.

Lucia was waiting for him.

 

 

-

 

 _my love,_  
_my stars,_  
_my everything_  
_why do you smile_  
_even as you_  
_wilt with pain?_

 

He traced his finger delicately over the words, as though afraid the aged poem might smudge beneath his digit.

The door opened, but he didn’t care to look up at the bulky figure standing behind its metallic frame.

“Excuse my intrusion, your highness.”

He said nothing. The galra soldier shifted almost nervously, then quickly cleared his throat, continuing: “The Blue Paladin is ready for your viewing.”

He stood, moving past the stiffened galra. White locks of hair billowed behind him like a curtain of snow. He stopped just a stride ahead and looked over his shoulder, amethyst eyes narrowed.

“The next time you enter my quarters, at least have the decency to call me by my full title.”

The soldier gulped.

“Yes, Prince Lotor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! bet you weren't expecting this, huh?  
> i want to clarify that while this will be part-two of a series (in which began with the sunflower you lost), both works are in two very different universes and will be treated as such. Think of them more as cousins- similar, but not quite siblings.
> 
> in any case, i hope you enjoy!


	2. a bad dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for gore and mentions of death, sexual assault, and torture

He was standing in a strawberry field.

Above him, the clouds moved lazily across an indigo sky.   

Lance looked out at the red-dotted slope, lips parted slightly as he tasted the sweet scent of ripened fruit and an early summer breeze.

It wasn’t until he looked down that he noticed the small girl standing just a few lengths away.  She was shorter than him by several inches, but her presence was not something so easily brushed aside.  

Her hair was cropped just below her ears. It made up for its lack of length in chaotically gorgeous auburn curls, most of which went whichever way they pleased.  One side was partially braided out of her face.   There were many colorful butterfly clips placed along the braid — the kind that were popular during the 90s, but were near impossible to find nowadays.   

She smiled, and Lance felt himself go weak.  “Lucia?” 

Her brown eyes glittered as she crushed into him.  After a long embrace, she stepped back, doing a twirl in a familiar white dress.  It looked beautiful against her olive skin, but Lance couldn’t shake the knowledge that it was the same dress she had died in. “The one and only.”

Lance grinned, curtsying the way he used to when they played tea party.  “A pleasure, always.” 

_“Boys can curtsey too”,_ she would always tell him as a child, to which her elder brother would reply, _“that’s a bit hard in jeans, little miss.”_  She always dashed off then, only to return with a stolen skirt or dress from Rosemarie’s closet.    

Lance became accustomed to wearing frilly and open articles of clothing to their tea parties, to say the least. 

The grin began to falter as he looked down on the ghost of a sixteen year-old girl.  “You were too young.”   

Lucia smiled again, but this time it was softer, sadder.  “Death is never convenient.”

Lance looked out at the endless strawberry fields.  He tried to remember a time they had visited a spot like this, but came short of recollection.  Perhaps it was simply a place Lucia had conjured with her mind, from memories that never were. 

“No, I guess not,” the former Blue Paladin agreed softly, wrapping his arms around her.  He wondered if his teammates would miss him.  

Who would tell his parents?  Hunk, probably.  If they ever made it back to Earth, that is.  His chest ached at the thought of his parents never knowing or getting the closure they had with Lucia.  Perhaps it was better that way, though.  Let them wonder, rather than living with the knowledge their son had bled out alone in an alien war ship, lightyears from their reach.  

They would mourn, and pictures of his smiling face would litter hallways and nightstands, even when they only filled his family’s hearts with grief.  But life would go on, just as it had when Lucia passed away.  

You could pick a strawberry, he decided, but there would always be more waiting in the field.  

“I’m here now,” he murmured into Lucia’s hair.  It smelt of the cheap peach-scented shampoo she used when she was still alive.  

She hummed faintly, but gently untangled herself from his arms, looking up at him.  “Not quite,” she said, her voice gentle.  Then, quieter, “It isn’t your time, Lance.”  

He pulled back, just enough to glimpse her face.  It looked apologetic, but more than that, it looked pained.  “What do you mean?”

“It won’t be easy,” she went on, starting to turn away from him.  “You won’t be the same afterwards, and you’ll probably get lost along the way.  But Lance, if there’s anyone who can find their way back home, it’s you.”  

Confused, he extended his hand towards her, but she had begun to walk further into the field of strawberries.  His legs failed to carry him after her.

“Lucia, wait.”  

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, magenta lips carving dimples into her round cheeks.  The strawberry field began to dissolve around her, like the remains of chalk on a driveway during a rainstorm.  “Buena suerte, Lance.”  

He desperately held onto her smile, the way the wind tousled her curls and made her dress dance with it.

When he fell, it was into a quiet and lonely darkness.  

 

 

-

 

 

He was dancing in a sea of lights and gentle voices.

The clement hum of music enveloped his ears, distant but comforting.

Around him, the world’s edges were blurred.  The man in front of him, however, was crystal clear.   

He was lost in his flushed cheeks and sapphire eyes; the way his nose crinkled with giddy embarrassment and his plump lips would part to immerse him with silky laughter when they lost their footing or stumbled amongst the other, more seasoned dancers.   

It was beautiful.   _He_ was beautiful.  

…Was.

The scene warped.  The lights, the music, the twinkle in his lover’s eyes — all of it was caught in a torrent of dark water and washed away. 

He was on his knees, arms twisted painfully behind his back.  Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, and sapphire eyes now burned with disgust and malice.  His lips peeled back, snarling in the face of his once beloved.   

“You’re a monster,” he spat at him, and Lotor took a step back, eyes wide.   

He opened his mouth, desperate to denounce the accusation, but found his lungs empty of words.   

Roses suddenly bloomed from lover’s throat, a garden so tragically beautiful Lotor almost forgot about the venom in the altean’s eyes.   

“What did I do wrong?” Lotor managed to choke out, watching with horror as his world began to crumble around him. 

“You loved me,” came his partner’s reply, spitting crimson petals from bruised lips.  

 

 

Lotor sat upright with a jolt, emitting a sharp gasp.   

The dream began to fracture within his mind, leaving behind painful shards.  

 The galra prince pushed his hair out of his face, swallowing thickly as he fought for bated breath.  His eyes scanned the dark room, drowning in the unsettled silence that haunted him. 

 _It was just a dream._  

How comforting it would be, if that were true. 

He removed the covers, reluctantly, and stood up, making his way towards the door.  A guard was standing post outside his quarters.  He startled upon the prince’s appearance, but Lotor merely put a hand up as he passed him and draped a crimson robe over his bare shoulders.   

“He is not ready, my prince,” the guard said, a nervous glint in his eyes.  “He is not conscious—”

He fell silent under Lotor’s scrutinizing gaze.

Remembering his place, he merely dipped his head and permitted the more slender of the two to pass down the hallway.

Lotor traveled on silent feet, arms securing the robe.   

He tried to shake the dream from his mind, but images of a sun-kissed altean with hazel hair ceased to go away.   

 _10,000 years,_ he thought, smiling miserably beneath tired eyes, _10,000 years, and he still haunts me._  

Lotor could practically hear him snickering from his grave.   

The guard looked up as he approached.  He watched the prince carefully, but his gaze did not betray the same nervousness as the last.  In fact, it was almost scornful.   

He watched his lips curl into a toothy smile as he closed the distance between them — saw his pupils dilate and nostrils flare in hunger — felt a hand brush his cheek, a gentle but dangerous gesture that made Lotor’s entire being quiver with disgust. 

“You are no belle, but I suppose you will do,” the guard hummed, a lustful growl rumbling in his throat. 

Lotor studied him, unflinching.  “What was that?” 

He blinked, and the guard was back at his post, all signs of desire erased from his lilac features.  “I said he is no Champion, but I suppose he will do,” he repeated, gruffly. 

As it seemed, Lotor’s dreams were not the only place he revisited the past. 

Haggar told him his time in the healing pod would have a few side effects, but he hadn’t thought to ask just how _long_ he would have to endure them.    

Lotor cleared his throat, but refrained from nodding.  “He is a…work in progress,” he agreed, “but this was my father’s dying wish.  I believe he has just as much potential as the Champion did.  Failure is not an option.”   

It occurred to him only after he had spoken that the guard wasn’t interested in his words.  He gestured towards the sealed door, watching Lotor through the helmet with the same tired eyes.  Perhaps listening to the druid's work and the screams they entailed had eroded away at his lucidity overtime.  “If you want to see him, best get on with it before the druids return.”   

Lotor considered warning him to watch his mouth — that he was in the presence of royalty, and the druids wouldn’t dare lay another finger on _his_ prisoner until he permitted it.   

But he only dipped his head and moved past him through the door as it permitted him access, lips pressed together in a thin line. 

Fear had always been his greatest ally, his greatest weapon; but what power did he hold against those who felt no such thing towards him?   

The room reeked of disinfectant and druid magic.  It was an unsettling pair, one that both blended and contradicted one another.   

He had seen their work, and while it was impressive, it was equally twisted.  There was never a fine line between their sorcery and their love of scalpels and the contortion of flesh.  The Champion had not been their first project, but it had been their greatest; it did not surprise him, that when presented with the gawky Blue paladin, they spared no amount of effort in churning out a new prodigy.  

When they first brought him the paladin, he was on the brink of death.  His face was streaked with sweat and tears, and he was painted with his own blood.   

He looked pitiful. 

He looked familiar. 

Lotor wanted to believe that if capturing the paladin had never been his scheme, he would have let the ragged thing bleed out before his scornful eyes. 

But he knew this wouldn’t be the case. 

The galra prince stopped in front of the operating table, looking over the convalescent as he slept.  

He looked strangely peaceful, even with his limbs strapped down.  

Despite the druid’s alterations, he still held the same tender features and lightly dusted freckles.   

There were, of course, many new features. 

His brows were somewhat bushier, for starters, suggesting the paladin had plucked them prior to his capture (Lotor was guilty of the same beauty recreation).  The top of his hair had also grown in length, though it appeared one of the druids had taken the time to clean up the sides and give him an undercut, just like the Champion’s.   _Not obvious at all,_ he thought, caught between amusement and annoyance. 

There was a patch of white hair nestled within the chocolate tendrils, as well, though this he knew to be from the druid’s magic — and stress.   

The dash of white against his dark features gave him the appearance of an altean, minus the pointed ears and markings.   At one point, he might have found him pretty in that sense.  But now, he felt only distress as he looked upon the former Blue Paladin.   

He stirred against his bindings.  Lotor did not startle, though he felt his body tense as he realized the subject was waking in his presence. 

When his eyes opened, they were like two clefts of the sea.  The flecks of indigo and turquoise were not that of his lover’s sapphire ones. 

It brought him a sense of relief.  But also a sense of disappointment.   

The clefts wandered around the room, before they finally settled on Lotor.  He blinked — once, twice — as though unsure if the galra was really there.

 His lips, which had somehow remained glossy over the course of his experimenting and torture, parted, just enough to taste the sterile air.   When he spoke, it was coarse and rough from weeks of whimpering and begging; and then, afterwards, defeated silence and unconsciousness.   

“Where am I?” 

Lotor allowed a moment of silence to unfold, unable to look away from his brilliantly blue gaze. 

Those eyes, they were dangerous… 

They were the kind you could fall in love with, but could never make your own.

Lotor guided his hand along the curve of the boy’s cheek.  As if involuntarily, the drowsy subject leaned into his palm.   

“Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with that lance and lotor angst  
> next chapter we'll get to see how the rest of the team is faring..
> 
> scream with or at me:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/peachii_keef)  
> [tumblr](http://peachiikeenteen.tumblr.comf)  
> 


	3. a rose with thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the past few weeks have been really hard for me, as i've to say goodbye to my dog, so instead of apologizing for the delay, i'd rather thank all of you who continue to give me kind words and have not put more pressure on me to write.
> 
> so thank you. 
> 
> this chapter turned out a bit differently than i initially planed, but i'm quite happy with the direction this is going. happy reading!

When Matt was little, he wanted to explore the stars.  He dreamt of going on adventures in an astronauts’ suit, and being the first of mankind to discover aliens.

Why was it, that life was so cruel in granting your wishes?

By now, everything had become a blur; like a kaleidoscope of colors and lights and unfamiliar places and scattered memories.  

He had gone from an astronaut, to a prisoner, to an intergalactic rebel - and then back to a prisoner, all in the span of several months.  

But now?  He was a replacement.

Matt had not known Lance.  But he did know that the team was devastated by his demise, and his attempts to pilot the Blue Lion in his place had not only earned him a fraught place on the team, but it had also proven to be a much more difficult task than he ever expected.

Evidentially, Blue was not as accepting of new paladins as Allura claimed.  This, or, Blue simply did not deem Matt fit to pilot her.  

Something was wrong.  

And it extended further than playing the role of a replacement.

The entrance to the hangar opened, tearing the former rebel from his thoughts.  He looked over his shoulder, half-expecting Shiro but instead being met by a pair of cold sterling grey eyes.

“Keith,” he greeted, hesitantly. 

The raven-haired boy didn’t attempt to hide his scowl.

Keith had taken the news of Lance harder than anyone else on the team.  Matt was later told that Lance and Keith were intertwined in a complicated relationship; not friends, exactly, but not the rivals Lance had once deemed them at the Garrison, either.  They had fought together, matured together - and with that, had formed a bond.

Naturally, everyone was distraught after losing Lance.  But Keith?  Keith had lost too many of his loved ones to accept another’s demise.  He refused.

Matt was a paragon of moving on.

And for that, Keith hated him.

The red paladin avoided a conversation, instead stalking past him.  He stopped in front of Red, who lay with her head docked between her front legs, and ran a hand over her metal snout.  She seemed to rumble upon his touch, eyes gleaming with an affection Matt was certain he would never achieve from Blue.   

“You know…”  _  It’s not your place, Matt, just keep your mouth shut,  _  “Lance...he would want us to move on.”

He knew he made a mistake the moment the words left his lips.  

Matt saw the muscles bunch in Keith’s shoulders, saw the little tremor that passed his broader frame.  And he realized, that no matter what he did - no matter how hard he tried to fit in with the team and earn Blue’s trust - he could never replace Lance.  Keith wouldn’t allow it.

“What do you know?”  Keith practically snarled, whirling around to flash clenched teeth at the former rebel.  “You’re only here because Lance sacrificed his life.  Of course Blue doesn’t want you to pilot her.  She lost her paladin because of-”

“Keith.”  

Even in sternness, it was a voice that could put Matt at ease.

_ Shiro. _

The Black paladin’s eyes were narrowed as he approached the two, his hands folded behind his back as though prepared for a scolding.  

Even now, it was like looking at a completely new man each time he gazed his former companion.  The white hair, the scar, the distant look in his eyes - it was devastating, to know he had not been there when Shiro needed him most.  

Shiro had saved Matt.  But who had saved Shiro?

“That’s enough, Keith,” Shiro continued, stopping beside Matt.  “We all miss Lance.  But placing blame?  You know better.”  

The flattened palm of Keith’s hand against Red curled into a fist.  His lip began to tremble, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out for several heartbeats.

Silence, then, “They told me you were dead, too.  But I didn’t give up on you.” 

Shiro winced.  His voice was gentler than before now: “Keith-”  

But the other boy was already moving briskly past them and out the hangar door.  

The sound of its metal frame closing left the two veterans in a stifled silence.  Matt swallowed, gaze cast on his feet before he dared to steal a glance of Shiro.

When their eyes met, Shiro was smiling. 

It was a sad smile, not quite like the one that Matt had captured in polaroid photos and incidentally fallen in love with.  But it was something - and for a short moment in time, it was like they had never gone on the Kerberos Mission.

They were by a cliff’s edge dotted with flowers of every summer hue, where the air tasted of salt and the ocean was singing a familiar tune below them. 

There was a picnic blanket, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and peaches and juice and black hair and soft lips.  

Everything was okay for a little while. 

...Everything was okay, even as Shiro smiled at him with devastated eyes and a flushed scar etched into his skin with Matt’s name.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Shiro said, and the blooming cliff-side and the picnic dissolved.  “Keith, he-”

“I know.”  Matt’s face hurt.  Smiling had become a chore, lately.  “I don’t spite him for it.”

_ They told me you were dead, too, _ Keith had said.   _ But I didn’t give up on you. _

“What are you thinking about?”  

He noticed the slightest twitch in Shiro’s fingers.  The way they seemed to do a dance, as the Black paladin debated whether or not to reach out and touch Matt. This had been their game since his rescue.  A game to see who could go the longest, pretending they did not remember the taste of each other’s lips.

They were different people now.  Romance could not thrive in space, between hurt strangers.

That was what Matt told himself, at least.  But he knew this was only an excuse.

The truth is, he was afraid of the scars he may find, if he ran his hands over his former lover’s body again.

“I think… Blue will never accept me,” Matt admitted, softly.  He didn’t allow Shiro any room to reassure him, instead continuing, “When I try to connect with her, I see visions of Lance.  She is the same as Keith - she won’t let him go.”  

A thought entered his mind just then.  It was ridiculous, so much so he almost brushed it aside completely, but like a spark it quickly grew into a thunderous flame.  He searched Shiro’s face.  

“It’s almost like she doesn’t believe he’s dead.”  

  
  


 

-  
  


“Focus on your breathing.  If it is inconsistent, then so will be your striking.” 

Lance grit his teeth, fingers grappling the hilt of his blade.  “That’s easy for you to say.  You didn’t just wake up from a month-long coma.”  

His opponent’s brow furrowed.  “I do not appreciate your cheek.  Are you going to advance, or must I make the first move again?”

He opened his mouth to snap another remark, but found himself swimming in the other man’s vivid blue-and-yellow eyes instead.  It was like looking at the sky and the sun, all at once.

He was pretty.

It wasn’t a subtle sort of pretty, either, like the boys and girls Lance would fall helplessly in love with as a child. 

In fact, he was beautiful. 

He was the kind of person you took one look at and knew right away that they weren’t worth gaining feelings for, because they were so indefinitely unattainable it was almost funny to picture yourself in their arms.  

And Lance was fine with this, because while Lotor may be a dreamboat, he was also an irritable asshole with the patience of a five year-old.  

“How do you expect to be any match for your fellow paladins if you can’t even spar?”  The galra demanded, taunting almost.  He stepped forward, wielding a blade much flashier than Lance’s.  He swung, aiming to kill, but Lance was too fast for him.

He redirected his body, moving out of the blade’s path with enough time and precision to aim a blow at the attacker with his own weapon.  “I can spar, my prince,” the darker-skinned man retorted, a smirk lacing his lips as he induced an unbalance within Lotor’s stepping and caused him to stumble backwards, “The trouble is that I don’t really care to spar with  _ you. _ ”

In one swift movement, Lance had his blade pressed against Lotor’s neck.

They watched each other, Lotor with his sky blue gaze and Lance with his indigo one, letting the blade taste his lavender skin a moment longer before sheathing it.  

“Anyways, I don’t see why learning the blade will benefit me.”  He clenched his arm, a metallic limb that abruptly stopped at its base and became cinnamon brown flesh beneath the fabric of his shirt.  “Not when you gave me this.”

Lotor snorted, fishing out a crimson handkerchief to delicately dab the scarce beads of sweat on his forehead.  “If that is what you think, then you are more of a fool than I initially thought.”  

Lance couldn’t decide whether he wanted to scoop a handful of his white locks and tug them, or thread his fingers through them.  He settled for neither, but Lotor’s arm stopped him from passing the galra prince.

“I saved your life,” Lotor reminded him, cooly.  

Even with lips pressed together, a quiet, muttered “ _ I know _ ,” escaped them.

“You were broken and rather than slaughtering you like your teammates did to my people and my father I put you back together.”  Lotor drew forward a step, enough for Lance to smell jasmine flower and lavender.  “You asked for revenge.  And I have given you the seed.  The least you can do, Champion, is bloom.”  

 

_ How was it, that someone so pretty  _

_ could carry such thorns within them? _

_ And why was it, that he was falling for a rose _

_ that would only prick him when he picked it?   _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna nip your questions in the bud now and tell you that yes, this chapter was supposed to be confusing.  
> and yes, you will get answers soon. not really sure when, but.. soon.
> 
> scream with or at me @  
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	4. a secret garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late. life is hectic, you know the drill.

There was a hidden garden nestled in the heart of the Altean castle’s courtyard  It was hard to find, and even easier to find yourself lost in once you had nudged open its mossy and vine-infested gate.  

Inside, you were welcomed by the strong but sweet aroma of lavender and honeysuckle.  There were flowers of every hue there, all spotted amongst the emerald foliage. It was overwhelming, in the sense that it was not.

And sitting on a marbled bench, holding a book so delicately in his grasp that it seemed to define his very existence, was an Altean boy of such beauty that at first glimpse he seemed to make the flowers near-irrelevant.   

Lotor had found the garden by accident, while wandering the castle after slipping out of a wedding ceremony being inside the grand hall.  Alfor’s daughter, Princess Allura, was wedding the son of an Altean diplomat and the next Blue Paladin.  Kieran, was his name.   

He was a poised but mischievous man, not one that Lotor knew well but enough to know he could easily fall for Kieran’s charm.  So he just to steal away from the moment that would seal Allura and her fiance; not because he couldn’t bear it, but because he would much rather remain oblivious to their love, and love in general.  

It was an easy thing to do, when your father and your mother were far too engrossed in their work to share what little affection they still possessed with you rather than each other.  

This is where he first met Clove.

He was a dainty thing, even more so than Lotor, with nimble wrists that only flicked when he was turning the pages of a book (a form of manuscript he refused to acknowledge had died long ago due to the advancements of Altean technology).

He was darkly skinned - perhaps even more than most Alteans Lotor had spied - and his hair was a tawny brown hue.  His most defining trait, however, were the two markings that rested below his eyes; they were starkly white, something he had never seen on any other Altean, and forked over the bridge of his nose to make an arch.  Almost like the markings of a fawn.

He was most intriguing, even when blue eyes looked up to shoot the lavender intruder a look of contempt.

Lotor quickly learned that Clove was, for a better lack of words, a killjoy.  

How strange, that he came to fall in love with those cold sapphire eyes despite himself.

 

 

-

  


_Each night,_

_You hear the mattress groan,_

_the sound of clothes shedding,_

_and a husky voice telling you not to be afraid._

 

_If you are docile, they might give you a treat_

_If you are defiant, they will dole out a slap instead._

 

_When it begins,_

_you notice the sea of voices outside the window -_

_Mothers chatting,_

_children playing,_

_food Vendors barking reasonable prices_

_and a cool breeze, murmuring the words of a forgotten song._

 

_They do not hear the creak of the bed_

_Or the silent breaking of your heart_

_As another part of you dies._  


 

-

  
  


Lance was irritating.

Lotor decided this long before his men re-wired the boy’s brain, but had confirmed it soon after.  

He was irritating when he had taken out over a dozen sentries, and he was irritating when he used himself as a decoy to allow team Voltron to escape with a prisoner.  He was irritating when he had woken weeks after being taken apart and put together again, and irritable with every sarcastic and teasing word he breathed in Lotor’s direction.   

But most of all, he was irritating for looking like Kieran.

It constantly reminded Lotor of what he never had.

What was never his to lose.  

 _At least he does not look like Clove,_ he had told himself on more than one occasion.  But this did not help.

His eyes - they were different than his past lover’s.  

They were more curious.  Bright, doleful.  

Clove’s eyes had been beautiful, but they had been clouded over.  

Lotor knew with time, he would cast the same rainstorm over Lance’s indigo eyes, just like Clove’s.

 

 

“I didn’t peg you for a sunflower guy.”

Lotor didn’t bother turning around.  He simply waited until Lance had taken a seat beside him amongst the holographic flowers to address the curious remark.

“They are not sunflowers,” he sniffed, passing the human a nettled glance.  It was only now that he realized Lance was newly-bathed and sporting a towel around his neck and a very bare, very naked upper-torso. He was more toned now than when they had brought him him.  He had been a scrawny thing, at least in comparison to Champion, but now his broadened shoulders actually fit him.

“They were called lalets,” he continued after clearing his throat, “they were native to a planet I once knew a very long time ago.”

Lance leaned back, planting his hands on the ground as he looked out at the vast yellow field.  

“One of my team-mates had…” he gestured for emphasis, “this.  She was able to see her father, revisit a part of her childhood.  She had to sacrifice all of it.”  His brow furrowed, like he was trying to remember something more, but then gave up.  

Lotor took the liberty of allowing him to forget whatever it was he had been trying to recall.  “This technology is similar.  But the only moments stored here are of places I have visited, not memories of lost ones that cannot be brought back.  I would rather talk to the flowers, than have a forged conversation with the deceased.”

Lance made a thoughtful hum, then returned his attention to the half-galra.  

“You look terrible,” he declared, noting the dark rims under Lotor’s eyes and tangled hair from their earlier squirmish.  

“And you look wet,” Lotor retorted, trying his best not to stare at the half-naked brunette now leering at him.

Lance seemed surprised by that, and his face bloomed a dusty shade of pink against his dark skin at the unintentionally suggestive remark.  He seemed to recover, because a grin quickly spread across his flush.  

“You’re an immature little wretch, you know that?” Lotor spit, trying to ignore his own heated cheeks.  “You’re going to drip.  This technology isn’t waterproof, you know.”  

Lance chuckled and pushed back his mop of brown-and-white hair.  

“What?” Lotor demanded.

He hated those eyes.  The way they sometimes looked at him so endearingly, despite everything Lotor had done to him.

“Your cheeks,” Lance said  “When you blush, they turn violet, instead of red.”

Taken aback, Lotor blinked.  He had a suspicion that they turned even more violet, because Lance chuckled again before looking back out at the lalets, his whole demeanor seeming to haze over.

“You promised that you would let me return to my family, if I helped you obtain Voltron,” Lance began again, softer this time.  His fingers grazed one of the fake lalets.  “I think,” he said, seeming to struggle for a moment, “I really love them.  I can’t remember them well, but I’m sure of it.  But then...sometimes, I remember that I loved my teammates, too.”  He smiled down at the yellow flower, as though caught between fondness and hurt.  “My family, they mean the world to me.  I’d do anything for them.  Even if that means turning my back on my friends.”  

“They turned their back on you when they abandoned you,” Lotor pointed out.

Lies.  He seemed to be drowning in them.  But the thing about lies is they can start with a truth, and everything he had told Lance was not so much a story but an event told from a different perspective.  Yes, he teammates had left him, but no, they had not meant to per-say.  Yes, he had lost his memories to injury, but no, it had not been from the hit he took to his side.   _Yes_ , Voltron had taken many lives and terrorized the Galra empire, but for good reason.  

The druids had made sure when Lance woke, he was a blank slate; putty in Lotor’s hand to mold however he pleased.  

Lance had believed every word Lotor told him, for Lotor was his savior.  Lotor used that gratitude to his advantage.  

Lance was silent for awhile.  Then he smiled and shrugged.  “They got rid of dead-weight.”

It was strange to think this was the same man who only a few weeks ago had asked Lotor to teach him how to make him stronger so he could extract revenge on his team for leaving him behind.

Perhaps he would have to go back to the druids for awhile.  Hatred and jealousy wore off all too easily with that one.  

“Insecurity is weakness,” Lotor pointed out.  “You improve with every day.  You will be stronger than they ever fathomed, in due time.  And when you have completed your end of the deal, I will let you go home.”  

When he stole a glance of the former paladin, there was a simper on his face.  “Home,” he repeated, delicately and warmly.  He looked up, and his indigo eyes suddenly seemed more like the sapphire ones he fell in love with all those years ago.  “What is home to you?”

Lotor hid his surprise for the question behind impervious lavender features.  

He wanted to say that home had been buried on a planet that no longer existed, in a time where flowers still held fragrance and secret picnics were attended in a castle courtyard beneath blue skies.  Home was a thought, a feeling, an Altean who looked like a fawn.  

“Get dressed,” Lotor said instead, suddenly tired.  He stood up, turning his back on both the question and Lance.  “A visit from the grave to your dear paladins is long overdue.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll most likely be at SLC comic con. Anyone else attending?
> 
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